Sex Miseducation
by mademoiselleblair
Summary: Puck, Quinn, Finn, and Rachel are all in the same Sex Ed class. Each chapter is divided into four sections, with each character narrating a section. Rated T for language and mature themes.
1. Before

**Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own _Glee_. :(**

**A/N: This hasn't been beta-ed. All mistakes are my own! Considering that I wrote this at 1 AM, there could be quite a few!**

* * *

**Puck**

Sex Ed. What a dumb idea. Whoever put me into this class was clearly mistaken – I don't need to be taking the class at all. Hell, with the number of cougars and Cheerios I've banged in the past month alone, I could teachthe class. Besides, who else knows the subject better than I do? I could do a better job than the nun they hired. The woman is practically ancient. I doubt she's ever even seen a dick before. There is no way she could teach the class better than I could. Maybe I could get Figgins to let me do demonstrations. I would hand-pick my fellow demonstrators, of course. That would be fucking _awesome._

Speaking of fucking awesome – Quinn Fabray is sitting diagonally from me, one row to the right and one seat up. Perfect view. She keeps shifting around in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs in that deliciously short skirt of hers. There's something wrong with that level of perfection. It needs to be violated. She's so... tempting. I idly wonder what she would look like naked. In my mind, I undress her. First, I'd rip off that brutally short skirt. Next, I would pull off her top. Then would come her bra, her panties, until there would be nothing between us at all. I can picture it now: the blonde bitch writhing underneath me, moaning my name. Another scenario: her beautiful lips wrapping around me, taking me all in and refusing to stop until I'm spent. Each possibility is so tantalizing, I can feel my skin crawl with anticipation and my blood rush downwards, what little focus I have on the teacher's lecture rapidly evaporating.

_Knock it off_, I tell myself sternly. I have to remind myself that I'm fantasizing about Quinn Fabray, my best friend's girlfriend, president of the Celibacy Club. I know I'm a stud – any girl in the school would love to tango with me, if you know what I mean – but Quinn is a different story. Finn says she flips out if he even slips a hand under her shirt. There's no way in hell I'm getting anywhere near to tapping her ass. To relieve myself of my, uh, swelling problem, I try to concentrate on the teacher's voice. She's lecturing about contraception, or something stupid like that. All girls take the Pill, right? Contraception isn't anything I need to worry about, so I tune out and focus on Quinn again. Hot fucking _damn_, she looks good in that skirt.

* * *

**Quinn**

I sigh and look at the clock. Thirty-five minutes until Sex Ed. is over. Sister Hannigan doesn't need to spend all this time going over each method of contraception in such graphic detail. I am a firm believer in abstinence. My first time will be my wedding night. My husband will respect my body and my decisions and not push me into anything stupid, the way Finn does. Oh, Finn. He's honestly not that smart, which makes me feel a little sorry for him. He just doesn't understand the virtues of virginity or that my future husband will expect me to be pure. Instead, he looks down at me with these big, round eyes and asks me if he can just touch my breast once. I let him, (under the shirt, over the bra) as long as he agrees to not go any further than that. I gave him a promise ring for our six-month anniversary and he told me he couldn't wear it around school because the rest of the guys on the football team would make fun of him for it. He is _so _shallow.

I glance back at the clock. Thirty minutes to go. Sister Hannigan is still lecturing, but she's changed topics. Now she's onto the consequences of a teen pregnancy. As if I need to pay attention to this. I wonder if I could petition the school to allow the Celibacy Club to hold meetings instead of attending Sex Ed. since we clearly are not in any need of this class whatsoever.

At the last Celibacy Club meeting, some ridiculous girl walked in and tried to pretend that girls want sex just as much as guys do. I mean, _come on_. That is entirely false. Men are simply sex-driven creatures; women are much more sophisticated than that. The same girl is in Sex Ed. with me, sitting in the front row. Her name is Rebecca, maybe? Rachel? It doesn't matter. Whenever I see her, she's always scribbling down pages and pages of notes as fast as she can using a pen with a gold star on the end of it. When she wrote her name on the attendance list at the first Celibacy Club meeting, she signed her name with a gold star after it. _"It's a metaphor_," she explained. _"I'm a gold star." _Ugh.

Suddenly, Sister Hannigan calls my name. Students are reading aloud from the textbook now, one by one.

"Quinn, please read the paragraph at the top of page 107," she instructs.

"There is a chance of an unplanned pregnancy every time you have intercourse. Contraceptives are generally effective in preventing pregnancies, although they are not foolproof. The only completely effective method of preventing pregnancies is total abstinence," I read.

"So remember, children. Abstinence! Abstinence is the only way to prevent an unplanned pregnancy!" Sister Hannigan trilled.

Her voice gave me a headache. I crossed my legs and leaned back in my chair. I had had enough of this class. It's not like it will ever be of use to _me_.

* * *

**Rachel**

Sister Hannigan has quite convincing arguments for abstinence, though frankly, they are a little overdone. Of course, _I _can't take any chances with an unplanned pregnancy.

Juillard, Broadway, fame – it's all well within my grasp. I'm going to be famous. I even sign my name with a gold star sticker. It's a metaphor; I'm a gold star. I have everything planned out in my video blogs, which I post on MySpace on a daily basis. In two years, I will graduate from William McKinley High School with the highest GPA in school history and a perfect attendance record dating back to Kindergarten. Four years later, I will attend Juillard in New York City while performing small but crucial roles on Broadway that are written specifically to show off my natural charm. By the time I graduate from Juillard (with honors, of course,) I will have earned a starring role. My name will be splashed across playbills, written in lights. _Rachel Berry_ will become a household name, spoken in breathy, revered tones of awe by aspiring actresses and singers. Of course, that's just the beginning. An unplanned pregnancy would ruin all of that. It would be inconsiderate of me to conceive a child at such a young age if it meant denying the world the pleasure of seeing me perform.

I attempted to express these views at my first Celibacy Club meeting, although I don't believe the president of the club, Quinn Fabray, was very impressed. I explained to her that girls want sex just as much as boys do. As the result of an increase in hormone production, it's only natural that teens should have sexual feelings. I'm sure that Quinn is suffering from sexual repression, which would explain her inhuman desire to silence my beliefs. Quinn is clearly unable to express her sexual desires, which may cause her to act out in a moment of confusion or loneliness. I'm sure you're impressed with my analysis of Quinn's sexual behavior. My two gay dads take my education very seriously and bought me a boxed set of adolescent psychology books for Hannukah, which I immediately read and used to to psychoanalyze the behavior of others around me. If this seems a little strange to you, relax. You are probably quite impressed with my intelligence and maturity. After all, I told you – I'm a gold star.

* * *

**Finn**

Sex Ed. isn't nearly as cool as I thought it would be. I thought it was going to be, like... hot chicks. Maybe they would make out with each other or take their clothes off. Instead,it was just weird Sister Hannigan, lecturing about the dangers of teen sex and something she called "venerable diseases." Confusing, I know.

I try to catch Quinn's eye whenever Sister Hannigan mentions the word "sexual intercourse," which is basically every ten seconds. Maybe if she hears the word "sex" often enough, she'll get turned on and let me feel her up – for real this time, not over the bra. I really like Quinn, but I wish she wouldn't be so uptight. I wish I could just have sex with her, to know what it feels like. I've heard from Puck that if you can last more than ten seconds, it's better than anything in the world, even football. I figure Puck knows what he's talking about. He has sex, like, every day. With _moms_ and stuff. It's kind of gross, the way he goes on and on about it. I told him to stay away from my mom or I'd beat him up.

I get out a piece of notebook paper and write Quinn a note. _"You, me, 8 PM. Want to get a real sex education?" _I write. I fold the note into a careful paper airplane and throw it towards Quinn, watching it soar through the air and land squarely on her desk. She gives me a curious glance and a smile as she opens it. _Yes... yes... _I silently pray, hoping she'll agree. After all, some weird girl at Celibacy Club said that girls want sex just as much as guys do. Quinn can't hold out on me forever, right?

Quinn turns around, staring in open-mouth horror. _"You're vulgar_," she mouths back to me. She tosses her ponytail and crosses her arms across her chest. Some girls are cute when they're mad. Quinn, on the other hand, isn't. At all. I inwardly groan, knowing this means I won't get to touch her boob again for awhile. Not even over the bra. Damn.

* * *

**A/N: Please review! All reviews are greatly appreciated. :)**


	2. After

**Quinn**

This is truly the most nauseating hour of my life. I can't sit here Sex Ed., listening to Sister Hannigan drone on and on about the dangers of teenage pregnancy while I'm sitting in the second row as a prime example. This can't be happening. It _isn't _happening. Surely this is a dream. I command myself to be dreaming. God would never allow this to happen to me in real life. After all, I'm _Quinn Fabray_. I'm supposed to be Finn Hudson's girlfriend. Golden girl. Good Christian. President of the Celibacy Club. The girl that newbie cheerleaders aspire to be and awkward, pre-pubescent boys aspire to date. And yet...

And yet, I stumbled into a dark room with Puck on a lonely night, drunk as a skunk. In fewer than thirty minutes, my entire future was erased. To be honest, I was so drunk I can barely remember actually having sex. For all the hype, it wasn't even exciting enough to make a major impression on me. Mostly, I just remember his weight on top of me, solid and heavy, as he told me to say his name. I wished I could roll out from under him, but instead, I just lay there – limp. Somehow, the wine coolers had disconnected my brain from my limbs. I was too tired to exert any real effort, so I stayed still under his blunt thrusts and grunts.

The most excruciating part of the whole fiasco is that I'm expected to sit here quietly, pretending my life isn't falling apart. Puck won't talk to me about it. For him, it probably was just another night, another girl to satisfy him. True, I was probably younger and firmer than some of the lays he's used to, but to him, I'm just one in a million. Forgettable. I'll never be able to forget that night. For the rest of my life, I will have a living, breathing reminder of that awful night full of fake promises and fumbling hands. There's no going back now. Quinn Fabray, golden girl, is gone.

* * *

**Puck**

Ever since I noticed precisely how fucking hot Quinn Fabray is last week in Sex Ed., I haven't been able to keep my mind off of her. By the time Saturday night rolled around, I had my chance. Finn was on vacation with his mom for the weekend and Santana was throwing a party at her house. Perfect set up. I wasn't trying to get Quinn to sleep with me. That wouldn't be fair to Finn. I was just trying to loosen her up a little bit so she would show me exactly what is under that gloriously short skirt of hers. Okay, so _maybe_ I was expecting a blow job, but c'mon – who can resist this stud? A blow job doesn't even count as cheating, so there's no reason to feel guilty. Even Bill Clinton knows that.

So when Santana gave Quinn one too many wine coolers, I lunged at the opportunity. I took her upstairs, leading her carefully by the hand so she didn't trip. God, she was so wasted. I pride myself on three things: my sexual prowess, my mohawk, and my ability to hold liquor. Quinn didn't have any of these qualities, but she more than made up for it by being fucking _hot_. She tripped onto the bed. Tripped. I didn't even make her get on. What kind of self-respecting, red-blooded man would I be if I denied a sexually deprived, wasted cheerleader of a good time? I wouldn't be a man at all. So I fucked Quinn Fabray. It was hot. I think she liked it.

Now that we're back at school with Finn and Santana and everybody, it's weirding me out a little. Quinn keeps staring at me like she's mad or something. I don't handle angry women well. My mom is angry all the goddamn time – angry at my deadbeat dad, angry at her boss, angry at me – so I just try to avoid angry, screaming women at all costs. You know, unless they're screaming my name, or something hot like that. I think I could handle that.

* * *

**Finn**

Last week in Sex Ed., Quinn was pretty pissed off at me. She talked to me about it later and said that she didn't appreciate the fact that I "don't respect boundaries." I don't really get her point. I think I respect boundaries just fine. Like, that one time she let me feel her up. I stayed under the shirt, over the bra, just like we discussed. I'm completely responsible.

I guess it was actually a good thing that to my grandmother's farm this weekend, even though the pigs kind of freak me out – I don't like the way they stare all the time. They're really creepy. Anyways, being apart from Quinn for a few days let her cool off. When I saw her in the parking lot on Monday morning, she ran up to me and told me what a caring, devoted boyfriend I am and how glad she is that I don't pressure her like other guys. She tilted her head up and kissed me, the kind of kiss that makes some pretty interesting body parts tingle. And that's when she said it.

"Finn, I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

I blanked. No words. Nothing, nada. It's not every day that you get a public declaration of love from your girlfriend. I swallowed, unsure of what to do next. Puck says that girls place a ridiculous amount of importance on the L-word and that you have to proceed carefully. I decided to man up and go with the flow. Hey, my girlfriend, _my hot girlfriend_, just told me she wants to spend the rest of her life with me. Who am I to protest?

"Quinn," I said gently, "I love you."

With that, there was nothing left to do but make out with Quinn – who _loved _me – and wonder how in hell I deserved this good fortune.

Actually, I still don't know how it all happened. But Quinn keeps turning around in her seat and fluttering her eyelashes and whispering, "I love you," across the room, so it's not like I can complain. The football player and the cheerleader. I think I read a book once where that happened. I mean, I read the SparkNotes for a book where that happened. It's all good.

* * *

**Rachel**

I am highly disappointed in the William McKinley High School curriculum. Sex education should be practical instruction on how to deal with real world challenges. If Principal Figgins believes that teenagers aren't having unprotected sex in the janitor's closet or the boys' locker room, then he is seriously delusional. Sex education should be realistic, and it is far from realistic to expect all teenagers to stay completely abstinent. This oversight is frankly irresponsible; an abstinence-only curriculum is often ineffective and can result in unplanned pregnancies and the spread of sexually transmitted diseases. Of course, if I were really upset, I could get my two gay dads to sue the school for endangering the lives of its students by failing to address the realities of teenage sexuality and safe sex. They know all the best lawyers in Lima, thanks to their winning four discrimination lawsuits.

Sister Hannigan called on a tall football player in the back row to pass out textbooks. I use this time to make a to-do list for this afternoon:

1. Polish the gold star in my room.

2. Write an alternative draft of my English essay that incorporates lyrics from _West Side Story._

3. Autograph the photos from my modeling shoot, in case a fan of mine wants one.

4. Make a protein shake with kale, guava, and ginseng.

I'm not even halfway done with my list when the boy hands a textbook to me. I glance up to him, ready to give my most gracious smile to practice for smiling at my future agents and directors. His _eyes_. They glint under the fluorescent light with hazel and gold flecks. I don't want to let him walk away.

"Thank... you..." I manage to say, not wanting to break eye contact.

"Uh, no problem," he replies, already moving down my row.

I see the name on the back of his jersey: Hudson. _Mrs. Rachel Hudson. _I like the sound of that.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reviewing the last chapter! I really appreciate your feedback. Let me know what you think of this chapter. :)**


	3. Attraction

**A/N: Thanks for the awesome reviews so far! Your feedback is great. Without further ado, I present Chapter 3: Attraction:**

**

* * *

**

**Rachel**

Although I consider myself a staunch feminist, above subscribing to the foolish idea perpetuated by Hollywood that my knight in shining armor will serenade me and sweep me off my feet, I couldn't deny the fact that Finn Hudson was incredibly attractive. Of course, I'm not so shallow as to delude myself that I'm in love with Finn because he looks good. There are many, _many _more facets to a healthy relationship than just appearances, such as shared interests and astrological compatibility. Yet... every time I see him at Glee rehearsals or in Sex Ed., I can't help but experience mild heart palpitations when he walks by or gives a lazy smile.

As I take notes on Sister Hannigan's lecture on abstinence – her third nearly identical lecture, I might add, she could clearly wax poetic on the subject for hours on end – I can't help but peek over my shoulder where Finn sits in the back row. He's usually doing something unproductive, like drawing inappropriate sketches of Sister Hannigan with Puck or dozing off. No matter how gorgeous a guy's eyes are, I can't date someone who doesn't take his education seriously. According to a checklist I wrote last July while at theater camp, my future boyfriend must:

Hold at least a 3.75 GPA on a 4.0 scale and be a member of the National Honor Society.

Take personal hygiene very seriously, including but not limited to: showering daily, moisturizing twice a day, brushing his teeth after each meal, washing his hands at least five times a day, and wearing acceptably scented deodorant and cologne.

Have a competent understanding of nutrition and eat well. If he can't take care of himself, how could I ever trust him with our future children?

Of course, these are just the first three items on the list. Finn does not fit a single one of these requirements. I may or may not have looked up his schedule in the school directory and he is not taking a single honors or AP class. Judging from how seriously he takes Sex Ed., I doubt his GPA is anything above abysmal. At Glee last week, Kurt told me that Finn didn't know the difference between a facial cleanser and a facial moisturizer and – prepare yourself, I was shocked, too – _didn't use either one_. In the cafeteria yesterday, I made sure to walk by Finn's lunch table twice to ensure that he would notice me. Not only did he not look up from his conversation with Puck, but he was eating a _cheeseburger_ from the school's kitchen. I doubt he even knows that our school cooks with _trans fats. _His understanding of even basic nutritional concepts is completely lacking; perhaps he doesn't even know what trans fat is.

I may think Finn is cute. I may think he has the most stunning eyes I've ever seen. I may even admire his vocal skills in Glee, although he has no sense of rhythm and can't dance. But I cannot – _will _not – like Finn Hudson. He's not gold star worthy.

* * *

**Finn**

I can't focus on Sex Ed. today. The whole thing is kind of creepy – a sixty-year-old, virgin nun preaching about the joys of abstinence. The more I think about it, the more uncomfortable it gets. So I just tune it out. It's not like any of this information will be useful to me. I'm basically forced into abstinence by Quinn, anyways. Even after she told me she loved me, she wasn't willing to go any further past the "under the shirt, over the bra" line.

We did make out in her hot tub one time, but that didn't go exactly the way I planned. She was just too much for me. She had a tiny pink bikini on and gave me a small smile as she stepped into the hot tub with me. Each boob was covered with a small pink triangle. I couldn't stop staring at them. They're round, tan, perky... and that night in the hot tub, they were pressed against my bare chest. She was sitting in my lap, legs wrapped around my waist. And the way she kissed – it was intense, man. Like she couldn't stop herself. She just sat in her hot tub, straddling me in that tiny bikini, making out like it was her damn _job_. I couldn't quite handle myself. It was a close call – I had to push Quinn off of me and think about the mailman. So even if it's not quite fair – I get to occasionally slip a hand up Quinn's Cheerio top while Puck bangs, like, eight girls a week – I figure I can practice staying in control of myself while Quinn works on losing the good Christian act. She can't seriously want to keep her virginity until marriage, right? She's religious – not _insane._

_

* * *

  
_

**Quinn**

Sex Ed. Ugh. There are still twenty minutes left in class, but I can't handle the thought of listening to Sister Hannigan for another second. When Sister Hannigan comes by to check my homework, I ask for the nurse's pass and claim to have a pounding headache. She lets me go, and I head towards the nurse's office. I walk slowly down the hall, savoring my freedom from that awful class.

I walk into the nurse's office. Nurse Jansen greets me with a smile.

"Hi, Quinn. How can I help you?" she asks.

"I..." I can't make eye contact. I've known her since I broke my arm on the playground in Kindergarten. I suddenly feel small. Scared. "My friend needs help. She's pregnant."

Nurse Jansen's eyes narrow slightly. "Is she sure?"

I nod. "She told me she's taken three pregnancy tests and they're all positive."

"Do her parents know?"

"No," I say, a lump forming in my throat. "My friend doesn't want to tell them. They would be so, _so_ angry."

"I see." Nurse Jansen leans forward on her elbows. "Quinn, you're a great kid. I'm sure your friend appreciates you coming in here and asking for help."

I swallow, nod, blink. I don't like the way Nurse Jansen's eyes roam over my face. She looks disappointed, sad.

Nurse Jansen continues. "Your friend has three choices – abortion, adoption, or to keep the baby. Each option has its pros and cons and she needs to think carefully about her decision." She stands up and reaches towards the assortment of pamphlets on the wall. Each is printed on brightly colored paper, with titles like, "Addiction: You CAN get help!" and "The Skinny on Eating Disorders." She grabs a sky blue pamphlet with "What to Expect When You're Expecting" splashed across the front in bold letters.

"Your friend might want to look this over," she says, offering the pamphlet.

I grab the pamphlet and blink down at it. The capital E of "Expecting" blurs and swims before my eyes. Furiously, I wipe away the tear, but not before it rolls off my cheek and lands on the pamphlet. We both stare at the small, wet spot for a split-second. The bell rings, signaling the end of the period. I turn slowly towards the door and walk away.

"Thanks for your help, Nurse Jansen. My friend will appreciate it," I say in a small voice.

"Any time, Quinn," she says with a sad smile. "Any time."

* * *

**Puck**

You'd think that I'd be able to get over Quinn Fabray. Thanks to my pool business, I've gotten laid twice since last Saturday and today is only Wednesday. I normally dig older chicks, but Linda and Susan just weren't as hot this week as they usually are. I'd find myself comparing them to Quinn at the weirdest moments. Like, in the middle of banging Susan on Monday afternoon, I couldn't stop thinking about how Quinn is absolutely goddamn beautiful. She has these ice blue eyes that make it so hard to look away and the softest lips I've ever seen. I mean, Susan's pretty smoking, but she's had one too many Botox shots. She makes this unintentionally hilarious face where she tries to raise one eyebrow and pucker up her lips like she's such a porn star or something, but her face gets _stuck_. She can't move it. It's the funniest damn thing. And Linda – I've never noticed until yesterday, but she has a flabby stomach, probably from getting knocked up three times and never losing the baby weight. I mean, I can't stick my dick up where _babies _have lived. It's so effed up. That's what I like about Quinn. Nothing about her is effed up at all – she's so clean and untouched. It's kind of thrilling being a girl's first. You know she'll never forget. (I mean, not that a girl could ever forget _me_. I'm Puck – I'm practically a legend.)

I can't even think straight anymore. I'm lusting after Quinn Fabray. I've never wanted a girl the way I want Quinn. Normally, all I need to do is snap my fingers and they fall all over me. With Quinn, it's different. She's been avoiding me since we fucked at Santana's party and it's driving me out of my fucking mind. I get hard just _thinking_ about her, thinking about all the things I want to do to her. God, she looks incredible today. She's still wearing that tantalizingly short skirt.

I just need to get a grip. Quinn is off limits, period. She's Finn's girl. _Finn's girl_, I repeat to myself sternly. I look over at Finn. He's off in his own world, staring straight ahead at some weird girl who always sits in the front row and takes, like, ten pages of notes every class. He's got Quinn and he doesn't even realize how lucky he is.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome. :)**


	4. Pregnant

**A/N: This chapter is mostly Quinn/Finn-centric. Sorry, Puckleberry fans! I'm going to start posting every other day or every three days. I have another Glee fic (Unscripted - check it out! It's Quinn/Will!) that I'm working on at the same time and I don't want to abandon either fic. Updates will just be a little slower. Hope this is okay!**

**

* * *

  
**

**Puck**

I'm pretty sure I need to talk to Quinn. I've been thinking about her for days now and I can't seem to get her out of my mind. Maybe if I tell her how I feel, she'll break up with Finn and choose me instead. On second thought, maybe I've lost my mind. I'm _Puck_. I don't need to tell girls about my feelings, unless it's whether I prefer blow jobs before or after sex. (Definitely before.) I'm out of my fucking skull if I think I can tell Quinn fucking Fabray that I like her. I'm just not that kind of dude. I don't do that shit.

To take my mind off of Quinn, I need a hot, distracting fuck. I slide my phone out of my pocket and start texting Santana. Sister Hannigan is too blind to even notice. _hey babe, let's cut class and fuck in the girls bathroom. _

Santana responds almost instantly. _sure thing, stud. meet you there in five?_

Score. I don't need Quinn, not one bit. Santana has bigger tits, anyways.

**Rachel**

By today's class, the fourth week of consecutive "abstinence only" lectures, I am appalled at the lack of effort William McKinley High School is taking to address the serious reality that teenagers are having sexual intercourse. There is even a chance that students are engaging in intercourse _right now_, possibly without protection! My two gay dads once showed me a study published _Adolescent Behavior Monthly _ that reported 4.8% of students nationwide have engaged in a sexual act during school hours on school premises. There are currently 837 students enrolled at William McKinley High School, which means that an astonishing _forty students_ have participated in sexual activity during school.

I was feeling fairly upset about the failures of the McKinley Sex Ed. curriculum throughout most of the period, until Finn walked by my desk to get a tissue. If my life were a Broadway musical, I would burst out into a perfectly choreographed ballad about how his eyes are the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen that highlights my ability to sing a high F. But instead, all I could think about was that if I were dating Finn Hudson, I wouldn't mind being one of the forty McKinley students who participate in sexual activity during school. I wouldn't mind it at all.

**Quinn**

_I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant._ For the last few minutes of Sex Ed., I struggle to silently say those three awful syllables. I'm. Preg. Nant. Finn needs to know. If I tell Finn that he's the father, he'll have no choice but to believe me. Sweet as he is, he's not smart enough to realize that sperm can't travel through a hot tub. He'll never know the truth and I'll save a semblance of the little dignity I'll have left. Getting pregnant is one thing. Getting pregnant by Puck is something entirely different. Puck plays the field, to put it mildly. He can't be tied down to one girl, especially when that one girl needs money for doctor's appointments and child support. Puck is just a Lima loser, a deadbeat. He'll never make it out of this town. He's not father material.

Finn, on the other hand, is exactly who I need to raise this child with. He's caring, honest, and nice to a fault. Once he gets past the initial shock of becoming a teen father, I know he's the type of guy who would step up and do the right thing and stand by my side, no matter what. I can easily imagine him falling head over heels in love with the baby. He's soft, sentimental. One look and he'll be smitten. I can already see him lighting up when the baby's first word is "dada," teaching the baby to walk and then run, and eventually ride a bike and play football. I know he's capable – fatherhood is just a few years closer than he thinks.

_I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant._ I know that I have to choose Finn. There's no other choice... is there?

**Finn**

Quinn corners me after Sex Ed.

"We need to talk," she says. Her arms are folded across her chest and she looks like she's about to cry.

Dealing with crying women and the four scariest words on the planet are not my strong points. I generally try to avoid these conversations.

"Uh, can we talk later? The guys on the football team are about to give a freshman a slushie facial and I thought it would be cool to watch. Wanna come?"

"Finn, this is important."

I glance over her shoulder, where a pack of guys are chasing a five foot tall boy with thick glasses and a bowl cut down the hall.

"_Finn!_" she says, grabbing my arm. "We really need to talk."

"What's up?" I ask. I figure she wants to know if I ordered the right color corsage for homecoming.

"I'm..." she closes her eyes and shakes her head, like she has a really bad headache or something. When she looks back up at me, she drops the bomb.

"Finn, I'm pregnant."

You know the feeling when you get tackled in football and you can just _see_, practically in slow-motion, all the bodies piling up on you and the ball slipping out of your hand? You know that crushing feeling in the pit of your stomach? That's what I feel like. It's like getting punched in the stomach and kicked in the nuts at the same time, but, like, emotionally. After a few seconds, I remember I need to breathe, so I do.

"Oh." My insides still feel like sludge.

Quinn is crying silently. I wish she would just go away and take this awful feeling with her.

"Oh," I say again. My goddamn brain is barely functioning. "Are you sure?"

She nods. "My period is late. I've taken three tests and they're all positive."

Normally, I hate it when girls talk about their periods. It's freaking disgusting. Right now, it doesn't even register.

"We didn't have sex," I say slowly.

Quinn bites her lip. "Remember that night in the hot tub? Remember how you had to think about the mailman?"

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I want to scream, but my brain still feels too sluggish to even remember how. Suddenly, I feel nauseous.

"I need to go," I say. I run to the nearest bathroom and puke my guts out.

* * *

**I'm a hungry writer. I eat reviews. Care to feed me?**


	5. Sperm

**A/N: This chapter has a ton of dialogue, which is new for me. In general, this fic is turning out to be a bit of a Quinn/Finn/Puck love triangle. (I adore Quinn! She's my favorite!) Rachel is usually left out of the plot line, but that should change in a few chapters. Review & let me know how it is! **

**Finn**

I feel like a sea slug. Honest to God, I do. The idea of fatherhood freaks me out beyond all belief. It's like the connection between my brain and my body has been severed; I can't throw a football or run laps or sleep. Can guilt physically weigh you down? It sure feels like it. I don't say any of this to Quinn, because I know she feels a thousand times worse – physically _and _emotionally.

Being there for Quinn – calling her on an hourly basis, asking about the baby, looking up names on the Internet (doesn't Drizzle Hudson sound like a rock star?) -- might make me go insane. It's too much, and I'm too young for this. I can't deal with this all by myself. That's why I had to tell Puck.

"Quinn's pregnant," I said quietly, one day after football practice.

"Finally, dude. It only took you a year to tap that hot piece of ass," he said, clapping me on the back.

"Did you hear me, man? I said Quinn's --" I broke off, glancing around the room, before dropping my voice to a whisper. "Quinn's pregnant."

"She'll get an abortion, right?"

I shook my head. "I think she wants to give it up for adoption."

"Wait – she's actually gonna go through with it? She's gonna get all huge and stuff?"

"I guess so."

"Whoa. Dude. That's some major shit right there."

"I know, I _know_. We didn't even have sex," I admit sheepishly.

"So you're telling me she's the fucking Virgin Mary?" Puck asks incredulously.

"We were making out in her hot tub. I came early, and my sperm are really, really fast swimmers. Apparently, 104 degrees is the perfect temperature for sperm to travel," I say with just a hint of pride.

"You're kidding me, right?" Puck asks incredulously.

* * *

**Puck**

Finn has got to be kidding me. He has to be fucking _kidding _me. Is he really dumb enough to think he can knock up Quinn in a hot tub without actually having sex? Aside from the fact that Finn is as dumb as a pile of bird shit (although, let's face it – he's not Einstein), this means that Finn isn't the father of Quinn's baby. And if Finn isn't the father...

Holy fucking shit.

This isn't real. Unless Quinn is a lot sluttier than I give her credit for, that makes me the lucky fucker who knocked her up. I'll have to support the baby, of course. I can't be a deadbeat like my own dad – I would never do that to my own child. But, seriously, shit. I'm sixteen. I had plans, you know? Not Ivy League/Broadway/world domination plans like Berry, but they were still solid plans nonetheless. Fuck a few girls before the month is over, beat out Finn as the star quarterback, keep my pool business steady_... _Those plans don't exactly work when you're doing midnight feedings and trying to keep a kid from screaming all the time. Screw plans. I just need to get really, _really _wasted.

"Puck, you there?" Finn asks, waving a hand in front of my face.

"Wha...?" I'm trying to decide between Corona and Heineken. Fuck it, I'll drink them both.

"You just spaced out for, like, ten seconds."

"Oh, what? I was just thinking about what a complete idiot you are. You had the chance to fuck Quinn and didn't? She's not going anywhere _near _your dick now," I say, punching him playfully in the arm as I walk out of the locker room.

* * *

**Quinn**

Puck whizzed a paper airplane onto my desk during Sex Ed. He had scrawled "open & read" on one wing. Sister Hannigan is too blind to notice what I'm doing, even though I sit in the second row, so I barely bothered to hide the airplane as I unfold it. _We need to talk. Meet me in the hallway. It's important._ I glance back at Puck to see what he's up to. He doesn't look like he's jonesing for any sexual favors. Instead, he mouths a single word: _"Please._"

I quietly walk to the back of the room and sign out on the bathroom sign-out sheet by the door. I slip into the hallway to wait for Puck. He appears moments later, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes tense.

"You want to talk?" I ask.

"You weren't going to tell me." His voice is low, cold.

"Tell you what?" I ask, eyes narrowing.

"Don't play dumb, Quinn." His voice has a dangerous edge to it, and it scares me.

"I'm pregnant." It rolls off my tongue much easier the second time.

"And the father is...?" he prompts, stepping towards to me. I don't like how close he is.

"Finn, of course."

"Cut the crap. I'm not in the mood to play games. You can deny all you want that I'm the father, but we slept together and I know you didn't sleep with Finn."

"Finn finished early when we were making out in my hot tub. Sperm travels very well at 104 degrees."

"Yeah, I've heard that before. It's not any more convincing the second time," he sneers. "Admit it, I'm the father."

I let my voice drop to a hissing whisper. "You may have gotten me pregnant," I say bitterly, "but you will _never _be my baby's father." With that, I walk away, leaving him gaping in the hallway.

* * *

**Rachel**

Normally, I try my very hardest to excel in every aspect of life possible. I currently hold a 3.95 GPA, am a member of no fewer than eight clubs, and won McKinley's "most likely to appear on Broadway" superlative last year as a freshman. I'm even working on writing my memoirs. Sex Ed., however, is not worthy of my time.

Listening to abstinence-only lectures week after week is excruciatingly dull, as well as impractical, so I have decided to use my time in a more formidable manner. Today, I'm working on a song proposal for Glee Club. Mr. Schuester has rejected my six previous proposals for being "too complicated," so I've decided to tone this one down a little. I was thinking of using "Like a Virgin" by Madonna, although I'm worried that the sexual undertones of the lyrics may create a negative bias towards our club when we perform at Sectionals. I'll do tour jetés and fouetté turns while singing my solo, while the back-up singers do a kick line. On second thought, the kick line might be too dynamic; after all, I should be the main focus – I'm the star.

* * *

**Please review!**


End file.
